The hiss of the train brakes, a discordant sigh against the rhythmic clatter that had been my companion for the last hour, signaled my arrival. Or perhaps, my latest displacement. New school. The words echoed in the hollows of my mind, less a statement of fact and more a premonition of mild, protracted annoyance. You'd think, after the fifth transfer in as many years – thanks to my father's insatiable wanderlust for new engineering projects that always seemed to be on the other side of the country – I'd have developed some sort of coping mechanism. A thick skin, perhaps. Or at least a well-rehearsed introductory spiel. But no, each new institution felt like a fresh gauntlet, each unfamiliar corridor a maze designed by a particularly uninspired minotaur. My name, for what it's worth in these transient existences, is Kaito Ishida. Seventeen years spun on this chaotic planet, and as of this slightly overcast Tuesday morning, I was the newest, and undoubtedly most reluctant, inductee into Seiyo High School. Reputed for academic excellence and a surprisingly competitive sports program, or so the crumpled brochure my dad had thrust at me claimed. I hadn't delved deeper. To me, all high schools were fundamentally interchangeable: pressurized containers of adolescent angst, fleeting social hierarchies, and the omnipresent, cloying scent of floor wax and desperation.
The train doors slid open with a pneumatic gasp, and I stepped onto the platform, immediately swallowed by a surge of Seiyo's student body. Their uniforms – a rather dapper navy blazer adorned with a small, intricately stitched silver phoenix on the lapel, paired with impeccably creased grey slacks for the boys and neatly pleated skirts for the girls – presented a united front of conformity. A stark, almost painfully bright contrast to my own ensemble: a faded black hoodie, its drawstrings long since MIA, a pair of dark, equally characterful jeans, and sneakers whose original color was a distant, hazy memory. My worldly goods, or at least the ones deemed essential for immediate survival, were crammed into a battered canvas duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. My transfer papers, a flimsy shield against the bureaucratic dragons ahead, were clutched in my right hand, already slightly damp from my palm. I probably looked less like a promising new student and more like a wayward soul seeking temporary refuge. First impressions, as I often reminded myself, were usually wildly inaccurate and generally overrated. Let them think what they wanted.
I merged into the stream of navy and grey, a solitary fleck of obsidian in a river of polished silver. The school gates, when they finally materialized through the morning haze, were suitably grand – imposing wrought iron, twisted into patterns that probably symbolized something profound about knowledge or growth, framing a meticulously swept courtyard. Cherry trees, their blossoms mostly shed, stood like stoic sentinels, their fallen petals forming a delicate pink carpet over the cobblestones. It was undeniably picturesque, if one appreciated such classical aesthetics. My appreciation, however, was currently focused on the far more pragmatic task of locating the administration office without attracting undue attention or, worse, having to ask for directions.
"Is that him? The new transfer?" The voice, a stage whisper from a girl with an elaborate bow in her hair, carried with surprising clarity.
"Hmm, looks kinda… unremarkable," her companion, adjusting her own perfectly aligned tie, replied, her voice several decibels louder than necessary. "Bet he's got some weird backstory, transferring so late in the term."
I kept my pace steady, my expression carefully neutral. Unremarkable? Perfect. That was the operative word, the cloak of invisibility I actively sought. My father, a man of few words but occasional, surprisingly poignant wisdom, had once told me, "Kaito, my boy, in the grand carpentry shop of life, the nail that sticks up is the first one hammered down. Strive to be a very, very smooth nail, one that slips in unnoticed." Sound advice, albeit tinged with a certain resignation. It wasn't that I harbored any particular fear or crippling shyness. Fear, as an emotion, was a distant acquaintance, rarely visited. My preference for the shadows stemmed more from a deep-seated desire for energy conservation. Drama, conflict, attention – they were all voracious consumers of precious mental and emotional resources. My physical appearance, I supposed, aided this quest for anonymity. Average height, perhaps a touch on the leaner side of wiry, with dark, perpetually uncooperative hair that insisted on falling across my eyes regardless of how often I reflexively brushed it away. There was nothing about Kaito Ishida that screamed, "Notice me!" And that was precisely how I liked it.
The administration office was a hive of barely controlled chaos, ringing with the staccato rhythm of keyboards and the murmur of anxious parents. After a patience-testing wait, a woman whose glasses seemed to be losing a valiant battle against gravity finally deigned to acknowledge my existence. She took my papers with a sigh that suggested I was personally responsible for her mounting workload, her pen scratching across forms with brisk efficiency. A timetable, a crudely photocopied map of the sprawling campus, and a pointed remark were my parting gifts. "Class 2-B, Mr. Tanaka is your homeroom teacher. Try not to get lost on your first day, Ishida-kun." Her eyes flicked over my civilian attire. "And please endeavor to acquire the school uniform by tomorrow. We do have certain standards of presentation here at Seiyo." Her tone left no doubt that I was already several standard deviations below acceptable.
Class 2-B. Second floor, west wing. The corridor, as I approached, thrummed with the low hum of pre-class chatter, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the slam of locker doors. I located the plaque marked '2-B' and slid the door open, just as the piercing shriek of the class bell cut through the air. Thirty-odd pairs of eyes, like a startled flock of birds, swiveled in my direction. The spotlight, despite my best efforts, had found me. Showtime.
Mr. Tanaka, a man whose deeply etched frown lines and weary eyes spoke of a long and possibly losing battle against teenage apathy, gestured me forward with a tired hand. "Ah, our new arrival. Class, this is Kaito Ishida. He'll be joining us from… somewhere else." A dramatic pause. "Do try to make him feel… moderately tolerated, I suppose. Ishida, find an empty seat. Preferably one that doesn't spontaneously combust." His attempt at levity elicited a few scattered, obligatory snickers. The man clearly needed a vacation. Or a stiff drink.
One seat remained vacant. Predictably, it was at the very back, nestled by a large window overlooking the grounds. Prime real estate for strategic daydreaming and unobtrusive observation. As I navigated the narrow aisle between desks, I could feel the familiar prickle of curious gazes, the subtle shift in classroom dynamics that a new variable always introduced. Whispers, like dry leaves skittering across pavement, followed in my wake.
"He doesn't look like much, does he?"
"Wonder if he got expelled from his last school? He has that vibe."
"Maybe he's secretly a super-genius, here to ace all the exams."
"Or secretly a brooding loner with a dark past. Like in those mangas."
I settled into the worn wooden chair, the scarred desktop a testament to generations of bored students before me. My duffel bag found a home on the floor beside me. The lesson commenced – Advanced Trigonometry, a subject I found about as thrilling as watching paint dry in slow motion. I leaned back, propping my chin on my hand, feigning rapt attention while my gaze drifted out the window. The sports grounds stretched out below: a meticulously maintained running track, a series of pristine tennis courts, and, slightly further afield, a distinctively traditional Japanese structure – a dojo. Its dark wooden beams and elegantly curved tile roof stood in quiet contrast to the more utilitarian modern architecture of the main school buildings. An interesting piece of craftsmanship, I conceded. Not precisely my brand of interesting, but aesthetically pleasing in its own right.
The morning passed in a blur of unfamiliar faces, new teachers, and the monotonous drone of lectures. Each change of class brought a fresh wave of speculative glances and hushed commentary. I ate my hastily bought convenience store sandwich alone, perched on a secluded stone bench beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the school grounds. The distant shouts and thuds from the various sports clubs provided a lively, if somewhat overwhelming, background score. This was the "slice of life" portion of the high school experience, I mused. The "drama" usually waited until after the final bell, when social territories were more fiercely defended and the subtle power plays of adolescence came to the fore.
The shrill cry of the final bell was a melody of liberation. I gathered my few belongings, a sense of relief washing over me. The plan was simple: navigate to the shoe lockers, retrieve my outdoor sneakers, and make a swift exit towards the small, sparsely furnished apartment my father had secured. Unpack, reconnoiter the neighborhood, perhaps locate a ramen establishment that didn't charge tourist prices. As I neared the designated locker area, a commotion from the direction of the dojo I'd spotted earlier snagged my attention. It wasn't the usual boisterous energy of an after-school club practice. This had a sharper, uglier edge to it, an undercurrent of aggression that sent a faint, unwelcome prickle across the back of my neck.
Damn curiosity. That proverbial feline executioner. Against my better judgment, I found myself drifting closer, hugging the cool stone wall of the gymnasium, trying to remain inconspicuous. The scene that unfolded was depressingly familiar, a tableau straight from a bad teen movie. Three male students, their Seiyo uniforms artfully dishevelled – blazers unbuttoned, ties loosened, an air of deliberate, practiced sloppiness – were cornering a lone girl. She was dressed in a clean white martial arts gi, the top half unfastened and tied neatly around her waist, revealing a dark athletic top underneath. Her long, dark hair was pulled back from her face in a severe, practical ponytail. Even from this distance, I could see the rigid set of her jaw, the defiant spark in her eyes, her hands balled into tight, competent-looking fists at her sides.
"Come on now, Rina," the apparent ringleader, a hulking specimen with a perpetually smug sneer plastered across his broad face, taunted. His voice was oily, condescending. "Just one little 'friendly spar' with us. We just want to see what the esteemed captain of the Seiyo High Martial Arts Club is really made of." He made a show of flexing his thick fingers, cracking his knuckles with an exaggerated pop that echoed slightly in the enclosed space. His two companions, a lanky one with shifty eyes and a shorter, stockier one, snickered appreciatively, flanking him like a pair of poorly trained, overly eager guard dogs.
The girl, Rina, didn't flinch. "Get lost, Daiki," she retorted, her voice surprisingly steady, though I thought I detected a faint tremor betraying her inner tension. "I have actual training to focus on, not wasting my breath or my time on muscle-bound Neanderthals like you and your pet chimps."
Daiki's sneer widened, a predatory glint entering his eyes. "Ooh, feisty! I like feisty." He took a deliberate, swaggering step closer, invading her personal space. "Maybe after we're done with our little 'spar,' you'll be a bit more… accommodating to your seniors." His gaze raked over her, lingering in a way that made my own stomach tighten with a sudden, unexpected knot of irritation. It wasn't fear for her safety, not precisely. It was more akin to discovering a particularly stubborn, annoying stain on a clean shirt. An almost physical urge to rectify the situation.
This was usually the point in the script where Kaito Ishida makes a quiet exit. Not my circus, not my monkeys. Standard operating procedure. But something about Daiki's self-satisfied leer, the casual cruelty in his posture, the way his goons leered… it grated. It scraped against some deeply buried, rarely disturbed nerve. My father's advice about being a smooth, unnoticeable nail warred with a rising, unfamiliar pressure in my chest, a warmth that spread outwards.
Rina attempted to sidestep him, her eyes darting towards the safety of the dojo entrance. But Lanky Goon Number One moved with surprising speed, blocking her path with a leering grin. Simultaneously, Stocky Goon Number Two shot out a hand and grabbed her arm.
"Hey! Let go of me, you ape!" she snapped, yanking her arm, but his grip was strong.
"Not until you agree to play with us, sweetheart," Daiki cooed, his voice dripping with false charm. "We just want to have a little fun."
That was the tipping point. The 'sweetheart.' My feet began to move, seemingly of their own volition, before my conscious mind had fully processed the implications. It wasn't a calculated decision to play the hero. There was no noble impulse, no sudden surge of chivalry. It was simpler, more visceral than that. My body was on autopilot, guided by an almost overwhelming, primal urge to wipe that smug, condescending sneer off Daiki's face.
I cleared my throat. Not a shout, not even a particularly loud sound. Just a dry, unobtrusive little noise. "Excuse me."
All four heads whipped around, their expressions a mixture of surprise and annoyance at the interruption. Daiki's eyes, small and piggy, narrowed as they swept over me, taking in the nondescript hoodie, the indifferent set of my features. Contempt quickly replaced any lingering surprise. "What do you want, runt?" he sneered. "Lost your way to the damn chess club or something?"
"He's the new transfer student," Lanky Goon supplied, a malicious smirk spreading across his face. "Looks like he hasn't quite grasped the school hierarchy yet, Daiki-senpai."
I ignored their bluster, my gaze fixed on the meaty hand still clamped around Rina's arm. "You should probably let her go," I stated, my voice surprisingly calm, almost detached, even to my own ears. This seemed to irritate Daiki far more than any overt show of aggression would have.
"Or what?" he challenged, puffing out his chest like an agitated bullfrog. "You gonna make me, string bean? You and what army?"
Rina looked at me then, her eyes wide, a flicker of something – surprise? Warning? – in their amber depths. "Stay out of this, new kid," she said, her voice tight. "This isn't your fight. You don't know these guys."
"It is now," I replied, my gaze unwavering from Daiki. A peculiar sensation settled over me. My heart rate remained stubbornly normal. There was no adrenaline rush, no surge of fear or excitement. It was like observing a mildly tedious play unfold, except I had inexplicably been cast in a speaking role. "She asked you to let her go. It seems like the polite thing to do."
Daiki threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the nearby walls. "Polite? Did you hear that, boys? This little nobody wants us to be polite!" He gave Rina a rough shove towards Stocky Goon, who tightened his grip, making her wince. "Alright, plain Jane. Since you're so damn eager to be a hero, let's see what you're made of." He cracked his knuckles again, a deliberate, intimidating gesture, and began to advance on me, his goons grinning in anticipation. "I'm going to enjoy teaching you some proper Seiyo High manners, transfer."
He threw a punch. A wide, looping right hook, telegraphed from a mile away, aimed squarely at my jaw. It was… incredibly slow. The world seemed to stutter, to shift into a lower gear just for me. I saw the bunching of muscles in his shoulder, the almost imperceptible shift of his weight onto his lead foot, the arc of his fist as it carved through the air. Without conscious thought, my left hand came up, not in a desperate block, but to gently, almost casually, cup his oncoming elbow. My right hand, moving in perfect synchrony, found his wrist. These weren't movements I had ever practiced or learned, not in this life. I didn't know any formal martial arts. It was simply… what my body did. Instinct.
The moment my hands made contact, I applied a subtle, almost imperceptible rotation. A tiny twist of his wrist clockwise, a slight nudge upwards on his elbow. Daiki, who had been expecting his fist to connect with either solid bone or a flailing, panicked defense, suddenly found his entire arm being torqued at an unnatural, painful angle. His own forward momentum became his enemy, his center of gravity completely compromised. A surprised, choked yelp escaped his lips as his balance utterly deserted him. He was a puppet whose strings had just been expertly, if unintentionally, manipulated.
I didn't even exert any real force, didn't push him. I just… released my grip. He stumbled, his overextended arm flailing, and then sprawled onto the dusty ground with a heavy, undignified thud and a sharp grunt of pain. He lay there for a moment, clutching his arm, his face a comical mask of shock, pain, and utter disbelief. "What the actual—?" he gasped.
Lanky Goon, witnessing his leader's abrupt and ignominious defeat, froze for a split second, his jaw slack. Then, his face contorted into a mask of rage, and he let out an incoherent roar, charging at me with his fists windmilling in a flurry of untamed aggression. "You bastard! I'll kill you!"
Again, it was like watching a poorly choreographed action sequence from a low-budget film. His attack was all wild energy, no discernible technique, no focus. As his left fist came whistling towards my head, I simply leaned back from the waist, a minimal, economical movement. The punch sailed harmlessly past my nose, close enough for me to feel the rush of displaced air. My right foot, moving with a life of its own, swept out in a low, precise arc, connecting not with a forceful kick, but with a gentle, perfectly timed tap against his leading ankle. It was less an attack and more like placing an inconveniently located obstacle in his path. He yelped, a sound more of surprise than pain, his arms pinwheeling wildly as he fought a losing battle for balance before crashing down even harder than Daiki had. The impact was satisfyingly solid, sending up a small puff of dust.
Two down. One to go. This was… surprisingly easy. Too easy.
Stocky Goon, still gripping Rina's arm, looked from his fallen comrades to me, his eyes wide and filled with a dawning, primal terror. He was clearly the brains of this particular outfit – or at least, he possessed a more developed sense of self-preservation. He gulped audibly, his bravado vanishing like mist in the morning sun. Then, with a sudden movement, he shoved Rina roughly towards me – not as an attack, but as a desperate offering. "Take her! She's all yours! I don't want any trouble!" He then scrambled backwards, practically tripping over his own feet as he rushed to help the groaning Daiki to his feet.
Rina stumbled from the force of the shove, but I caught her arm, my grip gentle, steadying her. "You okay?" I asked, my voice still disconcertingly even, as if I'd just asked her for the time.
She stared at me, her mouth slightly agape, her carefully constructed ponytail now slightly askew. A few strands of dark hair had escaped to frame her face. "I… uh… what… what just happened?" she stammered, her amber eyes, a striking, vibrant color I hadn't properly registered before, wide with disbelief and something else… a dawning awe?
Daiki, cradling his throbbing arm, his face now pale and beaded with sweat, glared at me. The earlier arrogance was gone, replaced by a potent cocktail of fury, confusion, and a healthy dose of fear. "Who… who in the seven hells are you?" he managed to hiss, his voice raspy.
"Kaito Ishida," I replied, my tone matter-of-fact. "Class 2-B. I believe I mentioned that."
"This isn't over, you damn freak!" Daiki snarled, but the threat lacked any real conviction. He and Lanky Goon, who was now gingerly rubbing his backside and groaning pitifully, began to back away hastily, their retreat far less coordinated than their earlier attack. They practically tripped over each other in their eagerness to put distance between themselves and me. Stocky Goon was already a rapidly diminishing figure, halfway to the school gates, running as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.
Silence descended once more. A heavy, charged silence, thick with unspoken questions. The only sounds were the distant, rhythmic thwack of a tennis ball from the courts, the gentle rustle of leaves in the afternoon breeze, and my own steady, even breathing. I looked down at my hands. They felt perfectly normal. No trembling, no ache, no sign of exertion. I hadn't even broken a sweat. It was… profoundly weird. I hadn't intended to do anything spectacular. I had simply reacted, moved. Yet, the way those three had gone down… it was as if they were constructed from brittle twigs and paper mache. I flexed my fingers. There was no pain, no strain. Just a faint, lingering tingle, like the ghost of static electricity.
Rina finally seemed to regain her voice, her composure slowly returning. "You… you just… how did you even do that?" She took a tentative step closer, her gaze still fixed on me, dissecting, analyzing. "Those weren't just lucky moves."
I shrugged, a gesture of genuine bewilderment. "I honestly don't know. They seemed… clumsy." That was the only logical explanation I could conjure. They must have been exceptionally, almost comically, inept at fighting. Yes, that had to be it. Any other explanation was too strange to contemplate.
She let out a small, incredulous scoff. "Clumsy? Daiki Tanaka might be a first-class idiot, but he's the acting captain of the Kendo club's B-team, and he's been throwing his considerable weight around this school for years! His cronies aren't exactly delicate flowers either! And those movements… they weren't just 'not clumsy.' They were… incredibly precise. Economical. Almost… professional."
I frowned slightly, a crease forming between my brows. "Professional? I just sort of… moved when they came at me." I reflexively pushed my errant hair back from my eyes. "The important thing is, are you alright? They didn't actually hurt you, did they?"
She shook her head, her gaze still unwavering, as if she were trying to see right through me. "No, I'm fine. Thanks to you." A beat of silence, then her eyes narrowed slightly, not with suspicion, but with an almost unnerving intensity. "You said your name is Kaito Ishida, the new transfer student?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"You're not registered with any of the school clubs yet, are you?" she asked, a sudden, unexpected fervor creeping into her voice.
"Uh, no. First day, remember? Haven't even found the cafeteria yet." Where was this line of questioning heading? My internal alarm bells, usually dormant and collecting dust, began to emit a faint, tentative clang.
A slow, speculative smile began to spread across her face, transforming her features from wary and guarded to unexpectedly radiant. It was, I had to admit, a surprisingly captivating smile. "Kaito Ishida," she said, her voice now imbued with a newfound confidence, extending a hand towards me. "My name is Rina Akiyama. I'm the captain of the Seiyo High Martial Arts Club."
I looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, then hesitantly took it. Her grip was firm, strong, her palm calloused from training. "Pleasure to meet you, Akiyama-san," I said, though a part of me wasn't entirely sure if 'pleasure' was the appropriate sentiment.
"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Ishida-kun," she replied, her amber eyes sparkling with an almost fanatical gleam. "You see, our club is currently a little… understaffed. And, as it happens, the All-Japan Inter-High School Martial Arts Tournament preliminaries are just around the corner."
Oh no. No, no, no. My internal alarm bells went from a faint clang to a full-blown, five-alarm psychic siren. I could see the trajectory of this conversation, and it was heading straight for a destination marked "Unwanted Complications."
"And," she continued, her smile widening into a grin that was both predatory and exhilarating, "I think we might have just stumbled upon our new secret weapon."
My mind reeled. Me? A secret weapon? My most notable skill to date was the ability to locate the quietest corner in any given library. All I wanted was to find a decent, unassuming ramen joint and maybe get through the semester without any major incidents. I glanced towards the imposing structure of the dojo, then back at Rina. Her expression was an unnerving mixture of unbridled excitement and steely determination. She looked like an archaeologist who had just unearthed the Holy Grail in a suburban backyard.
"Look, Akiyama-san," I began, trying to formulate a polite, yet firm, refusal. "I appreciate the sentiment, really, I do. But I'm not really a martial arts guy. What happened back there with Daiki and his friends… that was just a fluke. Beginner's luck. Seriously."
Rina raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a skeptical smirk playing on her lips. "A fluke? Ishida-kun, you neutralized Daiki Tanaka and his two trained goons in under ten seconds, without so much as breaking a sweat, using what appeared to be some incredibly refined joint manipulation and perfectly executed sweeps, and you have the audacity to call it a fluke?" She shook her head, a lock of dark hair escaping her ponytail and brushing her cheek. "I've been training in various forms of budo since I was six years old. I like to think I know genuine talent when I see it. And what I just witnessed wasn't luck, Ishida-kun. It was… instinct. Raw, terrifying, beautiful instinct."
Terrifying? Beautiful? She was definitely looking at a different Kaito Ishida than the one I inhabited. The Kaito Ishida I knew was currently engaged in a silent, frantic internal debate about the relative merits of feigning a sudden, debilitating allergic reaction to fresh air versus simply turning tail and sprinting in the opposite direction.
"You don't even look particularly strong," she mused, tilting her head to one side as she subjected me to another thorough visual assessment. "No obvious muscle definition, you're not particularly tall or broad-shouldered… but the way you moved… the application of leverage, the impeccable timing… it was flawless."
"As I said," I reiterated, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice, "I don't know how—"
"You don't have to know how you did it, not yet," she interrupted, her voice practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "That's what a club, what training, is for! We can help you understand it, to harness and refine it! Just think about it, Ishida-kun! With your innate, natural ability, combined with our structured training regimen…" Her eyes shone with an almost messianic fervor. "We could actually make a serious mark in the tournament this year! We could go all the way!"
Go all the way? I barely made it through a full day of trigonometry and ancient history without succumbing to a powerful urge to nap. Competitive tournaments sounded like a special kind of purgatory, involving copious amounts of sweat, aggressive shouting, and a distinct, lamentable lack of peace and quiet.
"I really, really don't think I'm the guy you're looking for—"
"Just come to one practice session," she pleaded, her earlier captain-like authority melting away, replaced by an earnest, almost desperate appeal. "Tomorrow afternoon, after classes. Right here, at the dojo. Just come and watch. Observe. If you still genuinely think it's not for you after that, I promise, I won't bother you about it again." She bit her lower lip, a small, anxious gesture. "Please, Ishida-kun? You helped me out back there, more than you know. The least I can do is show you a place where skills like yours are not just understood, but truly appreciated, not just… accidentally deployed against local morons."
Her choice of words, "accidentally deployed against local morons," resonated with an uncomfortable accuracy. That pretty much summed up my recent experience. But the sheer intensity of her gaze, the genuine gratitude that softened her features, mixed with that almost palpable, desperate hope… it was surprisingly difficult to refuse. And a small, traitorous, hitherto unknown part of me, the part that had felt that strange, faint tingle in my hands, the part that had registered the almost effortless way my body had moved, was… curious. Just a tiny, flickering ember of curiosity. What had actually happened back there? My body had moved with a surety, a precision, a devastating efficiency that I didn't consciously possess. It was as if my limbs remembered a language my mind had long since forgotten.
I let out a long, drawn-out sigh, the sound of impending doom and resignation. My meticulously crafted plan for a quiet, invisible, drama-free high school existence was already going up in spectacular, cherry-blossom-scented smoke, wasn't it? "One practice session," I conceded, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. "Just to watch. That's it."
Rina beamed, her smile so sudden and so incandescently bright it could have probably powered the entire school for a week. "Excellent! You won't regret this, Ishida-kun! I have a feeling this is going to be absolutely legendary!"
Legendary? I highly, profoundly doubted it. More likely, it was going to be a colossal, time-consuming pain in the neck. But as I looked at Rina Akiyama, her striking amber eyes burning with an infectious, almost alarming fire, I couldn't quite shake the unsettling premonition that my life, for better or for worse, had just taken a very sharp, very unexpected, and quite possibly very loud turn. The quiet transfer student had, it seemed, inadvertently caused a minor social earthquake, and the aftershocks were only just beginning to ripple outwards. My immediate quest for a satisfying bowl of ramen, alas, would have to be postponed. Tomorrow, it appeared, I was scheduled for a visit to a martial arts dojo. Wonderful. Just… absolutely wonderful.